Scars
by zarabithia
Summary: Trip’s death and Vulcan biology change the nature of Archer and T’Pol’s relationship. Or maybe not.


**Scars**

**Rating: PG-13/T**

**Disclaimer: I don't own them. This fic couldn't occur in the universe that I would own.**

**Genre: Angst. Future Fic. It features both A/T'P and T/T'P. Response to all the silly fics I've been reading where A and T jump into each other's arms following TATV. **

**Summary: Trip's death and Vulcan biology change the nature of Archer and T'Pol's relationship. Or maybe not.**

* * *

Maybe it's just the intense throbbing in my head, but I could sear that Phlox's medical tricorders are much noisier than any of the devices he used to have on _Enterprise_Of course, since I was never in any situation quite like this during the decade I commanded her, and I can't ever remember my head throbbing this badly , maybe I'm imagining it. Funny what a difference fifteen years can make. 

Fifteen years ago, I was out exploring the galaxy. Today, I am bound to a cushy and damn boring job as Chief of Starfleet Operations. Fifteen years ago, Trip was still alive. Today. . . today I still miss him, and so does T'Pol.

Which is why this is the second time in14 years that Phlox has taken a four day leave from his post at Starfleet Medical to take care of us. Well, _me, _mostly. T'Pol doesn't really need his help, much.

"You appear to be thinking deep thoughts, Captain."

It's an invitation to talk. The psychiatrist in Phlox can't resist asking. I understand his want to know, and I appreciate his concern, but there's no way I'm going to open up. At least, not abut what he _wants _to talk about. "My head hurts."

"Ah, the result of your concussion, no doubt. That's the least of your injuries."

I bet. I can feel each and every one of them. "Am I really in that bad of shape?"

"Three broken ribs, a fracture in your tibia, and I suppose I don't have to mention al the scratches or numerous contusions?"

"No."

Phlox presses the hypospray to my neck. He has the good sense not to comment on the shadow of T'Pol's fingertips outlining the area. "This should alleviate most of the pain." It won't, if the last time is any indication.

It's purely a matter of pride that makes me attempt to stand. It's a bad idea, and I pay for my stupidity with the pain that tears through my chest. I try to keep from showing it, but Phlox picks up on it immediately. He offers a hand to steady me, and shows his disapproval with a trademark click of his tongue.

"Would it do any good to attempt to convince you to stay in bed for the next two days?"

"I've spent the pat four days in a bed."

Phlox clicks his tongue again. "Very well. I'll be back to check on you in a week. If you should need anything else, you know how to contact me."

" I sure do."

Phlox gathers his materials and exits my quarters - no, my _bedroom - _at nearly the same time as T'Pol enters.

"Jonathan," she greets. Despite the pain I'm in, I can't help but smile. Her greeting has changed over the past fifteen years as well. I've gone from being a rank to being Jonathan, her friend. Her tone has changed over the past fifteen years, as well. It's become softer. . . less Vulcan. That happened just after the first pon farr ended. Well, our first. Her second.

"Hey, T'Pol. Phlox give you a clean bill of health?"

She raises an eyebrow at my question, as if to tell me how stupid she thinks it is. "I didn't require Phlox's assistance."

"No, I guess you didn't."

T'Pol sits in the chair across from me, so gently that the soft cushions beneath her barely give under her weight. "Your injuries appear to be substantial." Time and our friendship allow me to recognize the dip in her voice and the crease between her brows as concern.

"I'm not that bad off, T'Pol. Phlox wouldn't have released me otherwise." I move to embrace her hands, and I'm careful not to wince, no matter how very badly they hurt. She allows the gesture, and it's probably pathetic at how happy such a small feat makes me. But is it really that pathetic, given how much I want . . . have always wanted. . . T'Pol? Even at our first hostile meeting, I knew she was a very desirable woman, Vulcan or no Vulcan. As our friendship grew, so did my want.

But my want was left unacknowledged as T'Pol's attention turned towards Trip. It took me a while - much longer than I care to admit - but eventually their affection became obvious even to me. I'll always remember that day, with the same startling clarity that I remember Margaret rejecting my proposal. It was the first time we snatched Trip from the grip of death and T'Pol stood by my side in sickbay, only minutes before I gave the order to Phlox to create Sim. The expression of completely sorrow was even stronger than mine.

On a Vulcan.

And I knew. Even though T'Pol gave a half-hearted argument against cloning, I still knew from that point on. The speculation that the continuing neuro-pressure sessions caused only cemented my idea.

So I gave up. Until, seven years later, I saw that same sorrowful expression cross T'Pol's face when we said goodbye to Trip again. It's been fifteen years since that day, and my wanting - the same wanting that never really left - has only grown stronger.

"I am glad you are well. I was concerned that I had . . . hurt you."

But she didn't mention him once this time. Our second _pon__ farr_. Her third.

"Well, there's no reason to worry about that anymore." I pick my verb on purpose, just so I can see that teasing lift of the eyebrow, followed by her predictable response.

"Vulcans do not _worry, _Jonathan."

"Of course not. Look, T'Pol, there's something I want to talk to you about."

She shifts just slightly, leaning back in her chair. "What do you wish to discuss?"

"Us."

The look on her face almost makes me stop there. Because maybe I've misjudged. . . maybe she doesn't feel the same way. . .

_No. _It's been fifteen years since we lost Trip, she didn't call out for him once during the past four days, and we've gotten closer with each passing day. I have to do this. I will. I _can. _

"What about _us, _Jonathan?" The look is still there, and I almost chicken out.

But. . . _No. _I won't. Because my hesitations have cost me fifteen years as it is. "T'Pol, you know I still think about Trip every day . . ."

"As do I." The tone is quiet. Too quiet.

"But he's been gone for fifteen years. That's almost two decades –"

"It's one point five," she corrects, again in that too quiet tone. "That is considerably less than two."

"Of course, and even when it becomes two, or three, or four decades since we lost him, the hurt will still be there." I pause and wait for her to correct me, for her to say _Vulcans__ don't hurt. _

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," she responds instead. I remember saying that to her once, fifteen years ago, just after we lost Trip. It was an attempt to console at the time.

This isn't going as I had planned at all. "But time heals all wounds."

She removes her hands from mine before I complete the sentences. "Perhaps. But some wounds leave scars."

I've learned plenty about scars from T'Pol. Both the emotional and physical kind. Maybe that's why I continue, in spite of all the warning signs she's pulling. Maybe if I push just a little more. . . "T'Pol, you need to continue with your life. It's what's healthy, it's what Trip would want."

"Trip isn't _here_." The tone momentarily looses its softness. "Further, I do not appreciate the implication that I have not . . . prospered since my loss. I experience greater career fulfillment currently than I ever have. In addition, I am more at ease with my heritage and career choice than in previous years. I have very much _continued, _Jonathan."

"That's not what I meant, T'Pol."

"You believe I should develop affection for another individual."

"I love you T'Pol. I want – need you to love me too. I want to be something more than a toy every seven years."

There's a pause, during which I dimly register T'Pol standing. When she speaks again, her voice has that same low tone. "I cannot return your affection, Jonathan."

"Because of Trip."

"In part. My people typically mate for life. While you believe one point five decades is a long time to be without his presence, I live with the knowledge that I have at least another ten decades without him."

"So you'll be ready to love again in what, four more decades?" It would figure. I'll lose the chance to love the only Vulcan I could because I'm human and can't possibly live that long.

"I do not know for certain. But I do know that Trip's memory is not all that prevents us from being together."

It shouldn't hurt as much as it does. But to have T'Pol state, calmly and simply that we could never be together feels like the emotional equivalent of a kick in the stomach. It literally destroys every thought, every day dream, every desire I've had since the day we met.

She's nearly to the door now, and I should say something, but I can't seem to find any words. She apparently realizes this, and says goodbye for both of us.

"There are . . . assistants on Vulcan that relieve me during my next cycle."

"Why did you choose me in the first place then?" I honestly didn't mean it to sound that angry.

"You've seen how the illness affects me. I did not wish to lose control amongst strangers. Perhaps I misjudged your suitability."

"I was convenient, then."

"You were a friend."

Were? No. I have to still be. Because it's bad enough I lost T'Pol as a companion. I _can't _lose her as friend too. "T'Pol, I'm sorry."

"So am I, Jonathan."

"We'll. .. get past this."

"In time," she agrees, and then she simply leaves.

And I'm alone.

* * *

The End. 


End file.
